


A Strange Magic

by nerddowell



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Beast!Renly, Belle!Loras, Crushes, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Something there that wasn't there before, amused and fond!Loras, awkward!Renly, bless these two bumbling hapless fools in love, the kind of love that you want to read shakespeare sonnets aloud to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-05-27 09:16:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15021446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerddowell/pseuds/nerddowell
Summary: Certain as the sunRising in the eastTale as old as timeSong as old as rhymeBeauty and the Beast





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Electric Light Orchestra song.
> 
> I will attempt to be updating this at least every other day (depending on my workload).

The golden rose banners outside the castle had finally fallen away, the besieging army’s horses kicking up dust clouds in the distance as they retreated, and the prince watched them go from his bedroom window in the highest tower of the western wing of the castle. The servants, rejoicing, could be heard clamouring in the great hall below, making preparations for a marvellous feast in celebration of the civil war being won. The prince, excited to finally meet all the heroes of the war about whom his brother, the new king, had written during the siege, spent hours choosing his finest clothing and overseeing the preparations.

It would not do for the nobles coming to celebrate to see how impoverished the castle’s interior had become during from the long siege.

Old gowns of their mother’s – long in her grave, since before the young prince had had his first name day – were cut up to make banderoles for the walls. The drapes were taken outside and beaten of dust, flapping in the wind like heavy velvet flags, and even the prince could be seen climbing ladders to polish the chandeliers and dust the wall friezes. By the time night fell and all of the candelabras had been lit, the castle was bright with swathes of colour, most predominantly among them yellow and black, the ancestral colours of the new king.

The feast was bountiful, with whole herds of deer roasted over a spit and basted in butter and herbs in the kitchens, fruits nobody inside the castle had seen for years served as palate cleansers next to heaping dishes of vegetables. Five courses of dinner were brought to and from the trestle tables, and the prince directed each away from himself, stating that the heroes who had saved the realm deserved the choicest cuts.

After the food came the dancing. A ball was held in the castle ballroom in the eastern wing, a huge room with enormous windows that filled the room with starlight alongside the glow of the golden chandeliers, music provided by the best bards and singers in the realm, which could be heard for miles around. Even the smallfolk of the nearby villages were present, at a smaller gathering in the gardens lit by the moon and the strings of hanging lamps that bedecked the hedges, and they led one another in lively peasant dances that made the gardens of the castle echo with laughter such as hadn’t been heard for years.

As the prince made his grand entrance – just so grand as a boy of thirteen could manage – a great banging could be heard at the doors of the castle. His guards jumped to attention, racing out to the main hall to find the source of the noise. The prince followed after bidding his guests continue their festivities, promising to return once he had dealt with the interruption.

Upon opening the doors, the prince was met with the sight of an old woman, ugly, hunched and wrinkled, as fearsome as any wild beast in the forest. Her voice croaked and scraped like the snarling of the old hunting dog as she spoke.

‘My lord, I am a traveller who has come from a realm far away. I am without money, shelter or food, and beg only that I might be allowed inside to stay warm and to regain my strength at your table. I have nothing to offer in payment but a trifle.’

The prince, kindhearted and sympathetic to the plight of the smallfolk who had also suffered under the siege of his lands during the war, started to move aside to allow her entrance. His castellan, head of his household and the only guardian the prince had known in his thirteen years, barred the way.

‘Show us this trifle, old woman,’ he said, one hand on the doorframe and the other resting on the pommel of his sword.

She turned to the prince, drawing from underneath her cloak the most beautiful rose any in attendance had ever seen. Its petals were yellow, so deep and rich a colour as to seem fashioned from pure gold, and the stem was entirely without thorns. Her eyes were pleading as she held it out for the prince to take.

The prince thought of the five years’ siege outside his castle walls, the suffering of noble and peasant alike that the famine brought by the invading army had wrought. He thought of the field of green silk fluttering in the breeze, visible from every window in the castle, and the number of golden rose sigils that sprouted amongst that silk, deceptive in their beauty. He turned the old woman away.

‘My lord,’ she warned, ‘do not be fooled by appearances.’

The prince shook his head, his voice firm despite its high pitch, as he turned her away again. He would not have this rose brought inside the castle for fear of the lesson the Trojans had learned.

At the sound of the second dismissal, the sky darkened with a clap of lightning and the roll of thunder, and the old woman, wreathed in fire, melted away to reveal a beautiful lady all in red. Even her eyes and hair were red, as red as blood, and a ruby the size of a hen’s egg flashed at her throat as she pointed at the prince.

‘You will be cursed for your unfeeling heart and your pride,’ she told him, her voice ringing like a bell, ‘for there is no love in your heart for the genuine need of strangers. Until you can learn to leave old prejudices aside, you will be cursed to a life as a beast, whom no man could love and all men will fear as you feared me. Your only consolation will be this: I shall leave this rose in your keeping, and it will bloom for ten years. If, by the time the last petal falls, you have learned to open your heart and earn the love of another in return, you will be returned to your human form. If not, you will live a beast for the rest of your days.’

The prince begged her forgiveness for his rash decision, and his castellan demanded that he be taken in the prince’s place, for his poor example. The enchantress, a smile on her crimson lips, acquiesced.

‘Very well. For your part in teaching the young lord his poor manners, you and all the other inhabitants of this castle will be cursed also, under the same conditions. When your lord is free, so shall you be.’

With a wave of her hand, the curse was wrought, and the young prince fell to the ground in agony as his clear skin grew fur like the bristles of a boar and a rack of antlers – sharp as knives and black as death – sprung painfully from his brow. His voice, so clear and beautiful in his human form, became a roar, the snarling of the old king’s dragons, and he fled to the west wing in his shame.

The castellan and all of his servants were likewise transformed, into timepieces, candelabras, dinner plates and silverware; the prince’s maids became feather dusters, his cook a brass teakettle, and his manservant a garderobe. The nobles, witnessing the raging of the storm outside and the transformation of servants into household knick-knacks before their eyes, likewise fled the castle for fear that they would be next; and so the castle fell into despair and disrepute.

The villagers dancing in the gardens were overcome by a similar spell; all of them forgot what on earth they had been doing there, and made their way home to their respective villages, all memory of those inside the castle whom they had loved wiped from their memories.

As the days bled into years, the prince and all the other inhabitants of the castle began to despair of the curse ever being broken. All who had loved them had forgotten them, and the likelihood of anyone finding the castle, let alone staying long enough to meet the beast inside, was slim. The chance that any intrepid visitor would stay long enough to see past the prince’s monstrous exterior and grow to know the man underneath, well, that was non-existent.

For who could ever learn to love a beast?


	2. The Castle In The Woods

Grandmother had sent Margaery out on an errand, fetching the bread from the baker’s for the family breakfast, when Loras finally arose. Dawn had broken a half-hour before, and there were soft golden rays of light streaming through the windows of the bedroom he shared with his two elder brothers. His sister was permitted a room of her own, as was their grandmother. Their parents kept the last.

Dragging a hand through his unruly curls, Loras looked out of the window at the sprawl of the village square beneath the sill, filled with all the hustle and bustle of market day, and then further off into the distance, where the forest grew thick and dark and foreboding. There was a rumour about town that a castle lay hidden within that wood, a castle that was home to a monster the like of which no man had seen before, so fearsome as to strike a man stone dead from the sight of him alone. Loras had grown out of such tales at the same time as he had grown out of an infant’s skirts. The streak of mischief in him, however, he’d only grown into.

He dressed quickly and without care as to how he looked. Their mother despaired of him, constantly telling him to take more pride in his appearance as the son of the town’s most successful merchant; Loras ignored her entirely and kept leaving his shirt collars deliberately unlaced past his collarbones and wearing his most scuffed boots whenever he went out. After all, none of the girls in their small village held any interest for him, and neither did the men, and so who was there to dress nicely for?

He broke his fast with his brothers at the breakfast table, breaking comb over one piece of his bread to spread it with honey and eating the rest with slices of the hard cheese from the larder. The moment his plate was clear, he excused himself, keen not to waste any of the hours of the day remaining to him in empty pleasantries, and grabbed his jacket on the way out. Margaery waited for him by the gate, throwing what was left of a bag of corn down for the chickens, and set off in the direction of the woods the moment she saw him.

‘Joffrey accosted me again at the marketplace,’ she groaned, wrinkling her nose in disgust, and Loras glowered.

‘You know, sister, you need only say the word–’

‘And you’ll eviscerate him with Willas’ piano tuning fork, I know. However, even our darling brother would probably murder you for covering the tools of his trade in Lannister slime, and that’s if the Lannisters themselves didn’t get to you first.’ She smiled, nudging him with one elbow. ‘I appreciate it, though. A girl can dream.’

Loras grinned at her. Imagining the multitude of violent, gruesome ways they would dispose of Margaery’s most persistent and unwanted admirer, loathed universally by their family and a great many of the townspeople alike for his cruelty and boorishness, was a favourite pastime of his and his sister’s and occupied many an otherwise dull afternoon. Margaery awarded points for the creativity involved in the method, and Loras currently stood the winner with eighteen points to thirteen for a particularly ingenious idea involving a large barrel of Dornish wine and a soup ladle.

The road through the woods petered out from cobblestones to a dirt track the further away from the town gate they ventured, their steps no longer echoing off the stones and instead sending up small clouds of dirt and dust as they walked. Loras found a large stick by the roadside which he picked up, brandishing it like a sword and fencing imaginary enemies as the trees around them grew thicker, the woods rising up on either side of the road.

Margaery directed him off the path after a while. Loras used the stick now to beat stubborn brush and thickets out of their way, forging a way ahead towards where the castle was rumoured to lie in the middle of the woods. His sister followed, carrying the packet of bread and cheese they had brought for lunch, and chattered about the tribulations she’d suffered from Joffrey that morning. Loras, who felt his vision cloud with red every time the boy’s name was so much as mentioned, took out all that furious energy on the thick tangle of brambles barring their way.

A cry of shock from Margaery startled him. Swinging around to confront whatever it was that had alarmed his sister, he found himself in the middle of a sudden snowfall. Behind them, the woods were beautiful, lush and verdant with the height of summer; ahead, as though crossing an invisible boundary, the trees were gnarled and naked, deadened by the cold and warped into ugly, unnatural shapes. The path led up to a high stone wall, smooth and imposing and only interrupted by a wrought iron gate through which could be seen a foreboding castle, rooftops thick with snow, icicles like swords hanging from every sill and ledge.

Hideous gargoyles grimaced down at them from every angle, throwing long shadows across the frozen ground even in the weak light managing to break through the clouds. The castle was half a ruin, stone walls blackened and crumbling with age, not a single light showing through any of the windows. Loras wanted to turn away.

Margaery, however, was already marching through the gate to have a closer look, and so he had to follow or else be branded a coward. Nevertheless, Loras stepped warily, and kept a firm grip on his stick, once again raised like a sword, ready to protect them from any dangers that should come creeping out of the castle’s grim interior.

Crossing the grounds, they walked past half-dead hedges touched by hoarfrost, hanging lanterns swinging like gibbets from their poles. Loras got the feeling that something was watching them, something cold and implacable, waiting to make its move, when Margaery stopped at the corner of one of the gardens and reached up above them.

They were stood under an arbour positively dripping with roses, the clearest, palest white Loras had ever seen. Margaery ran a fingertip over the furled petals of the nearest bloom, her eyes wide.

‘I didn’t know roses grew in winter.’

‘They don’t,’ Loras told her. ‘It’s not winter, it’s summer. Summer everywhere but here, apparently.’ He shivered in the cold, pulling his jacket closer around him. ‘I don’t understand it.’

‘Maybe it’s magic,’ Margaery said, her eyes shining. She pulled on the rose until, with a gentle snapping sound, it broke free of the bower –

A huge, shadowy shape dropped down in front of them, seemingly from nowhere, with a roar that could freeze the blood of the dead. Loras instinctively thrust Margaery behind him, swinging his stick at the creature with as much force as he could muster, only to have it bat the blow away like swatting a fly. The stick was wrenched from his hands a split second before Margaery was dragged out from behind him, a taloned paw closed tight around her arm, and a pair of furious eyes fixed on her pale face.

‘ _Who are you?_ ’ the creature demanded, its voice like the breaking of rock deep within the bowels of the earth. ‘ _What are you doing here?_ ’ It didn’t give either of them time to answer before tearing the rose from Margaery’s hand. ‘Thieves!’

Loras lunged at it, fighting to remove the paw from Margaery’s arm. He was strong despite his slim frame, able to hold his own against much larger boys in schoolyard fights, and yet he was no match for the creature that held Margaery’s arm in an iron grasp. The beast threw him aside like a rag doll, as if he weighed no more than a feather; it dragged his sister away, ignoring her pleas and cries for help, until Loras stumbled past to plant himself in its path and demand, in a brave voice that belayed the trembling of his knees and the fear making his heart beat a frantic tattoo against his ribs:

‘Take me instead.’

‘She is the thief, and she will be punished.’

‘She’s a _child_!’ Loras argued hotly. ‘She’s thirteen! Are you so heartless that you would lock up a child of thirteen for the crime of picking a rose?’

‘Why not?’ the beast growled at him. ‘I was thirteen when I was granted eternal damnation for one.’

‘Please,’ Loras said, in as polite a tone as he could manage with so much anger simmering under his skin, ‘let her go.’

‘If I am to let her go, then you must take her place.’ The beast fixed him with a burning gaze, a challenge, and Loras never backed down from a challenge. He set his jaw and glared back at the creature stubbornly, hating it for its heartlessness, its cruelty, the injustice of a life sentence for a plucked flower.

‘Done.’


	3. Prisoner

‘You would do that?’ The creature asked after what felt like aeons of shocked silence, seemingly wrong-footed. Despite his instinctive reaction to take the words back, every fibre of his being screaming in protest, Loras stared the beast down. He would rather die than allow Margaery to become the lifelong prisoner of this monster. She was his sister.

‘Yes.’

The beast released Margaery with a shove, leaving deep claw marks behind in the soft flesh of her arm. The wounds didn’t seem even to register to her as she immediately grasped for her brother, clinging to the sleeve of his shirt and refusing to let go. Tears were welling in her eyes, but her jaw was set, and he was reminded of how his mother had always said how alike they were. The expression of defiance on her face was one he was intimately familiar with, as it occurred all too often on his own.

‘Loras, no!’

Loras turned to her, prising her hands from his sleeve as gently as he could. ‘Margaery, go.’

‘I won’t let you!’

‘I’m not asking you to,’ he snapped, feeling his temper flare. ‘I’m telling you to go. Leave me.’

‘Loras–’

Loras thrust his arms out for the beast to take him. ‘Come on. If I’m to stay here then do it already.’

The beast eventually shook its great antlered head and threw Loras over its shoulder like a sack of potatoes, hauling him up the stairs as though he were no heavier than a feather. It locked Loras inside one of the cells before all but dragging his sister across the courtyard to a waiting carriage, which rolled away of its own accord once the door was closed. Loras watched her go from the small, barred window of his cell, Margaery’s face pressed against the window, trying to catch a last glimpse of him before the carriage rolled through the gates and he was lost from her view forever.

The sight of the carriage disappearing brought the reality of his situation to Loras. He was to remain trapped in this castle forever, never seeing his family again, and all for a _rose_. He was furious and sick with grief all at once, emotions roiling inside him. He slumped against the wall of the cell, eyes prickling with tears and knuckling them away angrily. He wouldn’t let himself cry. He certainly wouldn’t give his jailer the satisfaction of seeing it.

It could have been moments or hours before anyone returned to Loras’ cell. He had been so beyond himself, staring at the four harsh stone walls of his cell and wondering how long the rest of his days would last, that he had lost track of all time. Nevertheless, the clouds over the castle had broken and moonlight streamed through the keyhole window of his cell to illuminate the beast’s form as he climbed the winding stone staircase to stand before Loras’ door.

Getting a good look at his captor for the first time, Loras recoiled in disgust. The creature standing outside his door – because it was standing, on two great hind paws like a lion’s – was covered from head to toe in fur like the bristles of a boar’s coat, with an enormous rack of antlers spreading from its cruel brow. Its forepaws – or hands – had vicious claws. It was as monstrous as anything Loras had ever read about in the books of childhood cautionary tales, and yet it had the strangest eyes. Brilliant blue, flecked with green and gold like sunlight on sea waves, and strangely human. Eyes that didn’t belong in the creature’s face. _They’re beautiful_ , Loras thought, until they narrowed with anger and the beast snarled at him, revealing fangs like knives.

‘Not a pretty sight, is it?’ The beast’s tail lashed behind it, and its voice was like the cracking of a monolith stone. ‘The only face you will see for the rest of your time here. You’re a fool, taking the girl’s place like that. She’ll never come back for you. Once people abandon you here, they never return.’

‘You deserved to be abandoned,’ Loras snapped back at it, ‘you’re too cruel to be free.’

‘You want to see cruelty, do you?’ the beast roared, and Loras flinched. ‘Cruelty you can have. You will not eat but by my leave. You will not move from this cell. You will have nothing and no one to console you in your imprisonment, and you will soon understand what _cruelty_ is.’

‘So you’re to starve me? Fine,’ Loras shot back. ‘Even a slow death from hunger is better than a lifetime with you.’

The beast roared, slamming his heavy bulk against the bars of Loras’ cell door. The boy startled, scrambling back, and curled himself up in the corner of the cell, as far away from the beast as it was humanly possible for him to get. The beast snarled again and stomped away, huge frame visibly still boiling with anger.

* * *

 

Hours later, Renly was still raging like a summer storm, pacing back and forth in his chambers and lashing out at what remained of the furniture. With a roar and a powerful swipe of his arm, he wrenched the door from its hinges and sent it careening across the room to smash into splinters against the opposite wall. The room was dilapidated enough already, furnishings torn in many a fit of pique over the years, the bed scratched and mauled beyond recognition, and even the chandeliers had been torn down and broken. The only perfectly preserved object from his former life as prince of the realm was the crystal bell jar under which the rose – still a vivid, beautiful gold – bloomed. Renly traced the tip of a claw over the crystal and watched as another petal slowly came loose and fell to the table beneath.

He was never going to be free.

Worse, he’d trapped a boy – a beautiful, courageous, stubborn, stupid boy – in his tower, condemning him to the sort of life Renly had been cursed into. A boy who, like Renly, had only been trying to protect those he loved.

Renly howled, a deep, moaning howl of pain and grief. He had spent nearly five years alone but for the enchanted objects his servants had become, entirely starved of human interaction until he had all but forgotten how to be one. All of a sudden, two people had arrived, the only two he had ever seen or likely would ever see again since the curse was laid upon him – and he’d sent one away and locked the other in his tower, where there was no hope of him ever breaking the curse.

Renly slumped against the table in defeat.

* * *

 

Heavy treads on the stairs leading up to his cell woke Loras in the morning from where he had been curled up, asleep, on the stone floor. He scrambled to stand up and face the beast as it reached the landing and stood in front of his door, scrubbing at the tear tracks and puffiness around his eyes and making an attempt to tame the wild curls tangling around his face. The beast looked in at him with a curious expression on his furred face until Loras glared, at which point the beast’s features rearranged themselves into the familiar scowl and he growled at Loras.

‘Come.’

‘Where?’ Loras challenged immediately, not budging an inch from his spot in the middle of his cell.

‘I’m taking you to your room.’

‘A strange kind of prison you run here, to move chattel from cell to bedroom.’ He folded his arms. ‘I’m going nowhere, with or without you, remember?’ He put on a deep voice, mocking and snide. ‘‘You will not move from this cell.’’

‘If you wish to remain here, by all means,’ the beast snapped. It took a deep breath, apparently to calm itself down, before opening the cell door. ‘You’re to follow me to your room. If you run, I will catch you, and that will go badly for us both. If you defy me, I will punish you, and that will go worse.’

‘Punish me? How?’ Loras asked angrily, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘Lock me away? Oh no, please, don’t deprive me of your scintillating company. I do so love these exchanges.’

The beast’s hackles rose, an angry growl building up in its throat, and it glared at Loras with those unsettling blue eyes. ‘You can come to your room, or you can defy me and remain here. Choose.’

The boy looked strongly tempted towards defiance, but eventually acquiesced with a slump of his shoulders. The beast led him down the stairs and out into the main hall, where he climbed the grand staircase towards the east wing of the castle. He was not oblivious to the way the boy was looking around him, eyes searching out windows and doors for potential escape routes, and he growled again, more for effect than in any genuine threat.

‘I shall lock you in your room as well if I have to.’

‘I am your prisoner, as you keep reminding me,’ Loras snapped. ‘Do with me as you wish. But don’t pretend to care for me.’

The beast didn’t deign to respond, just threw open the nearest door to show Loras into a room so opulent he thought he’d walked into another world. A beautiful four-poster bed sat in the corner of the room, swathed in sumptuous pale gold damask, antlers and crowns carved into the head- and foot-boards; beside it, gold filigreed candelabras sat on antique end tables, and a wardrobe as large as Loras’ entire bedroom at home (or so it seemed) sat in the opposite corner. The walls were bounded by rococo friezes, the carpet – though threadbare in places – was a deep, plush pile, and it was the most beautiful room Loras had ever been allowed into.

The beast stood by the door, almost awkward.

‘I hope it’s to your liking.’ It said, and Loras’ eyes widened. The creature was actually trying to _please_ him – to make friends. As though it wanted Loras, its prisoner, to _like_ it. He felt sick.

‘It’s a beautiful cage,’ he said, ‘but a cage nonetheless.’

The beast flinched before anger visibly reared its ugly head, blue eyes narrowed and sharp on Loras’ face, the wood of the door splintering beneath a suddenly vice-tight grip.

‘Like it or not, caged or not, it is yours.’ It strode over to the window, throwing open the sash to show Loras the sheer drop to the bottom of the tower eighty feet below. ‘To attempt escape would be unwise,’ it told him. ‘The fall alone would kill you.’

‘As I’ve said,’ Loras argued, ‘better to die trying to escape than to live out the rest of my life with you.’


	4. The West Wing

The carriage deposited Margaery at the gates to the town, the door opening of its own accord to let her out before shutting itself again and rolling away, presumably back to its master in the castle. She ran home straight away, not stopping until she reached the porch of her family’s house, where her father was waiting, frantic with worry. She tried to explain everything about what had happened – her capture, the beast, Loras’ imprisonment – but her father was too busy berating her for getting herself lost in the woods when there were wolves and other, worse creatures skulking around to listen properly.

She was sent to bed immediately after, and despite her determination to find her brothers and beg for their help in rescuing Loras, as soon as her head hit the pillow she fell asleep so deeply it would have taken an earthquake happening outside her door to rouse her.

She woke again a few hours after daybreak, dizzy and disoriented. She’d had the strangest dream, that she and Loras had visited a castle and seen a beast, and her brother had volunteered himself in her stead to remain a prisoner there after she had been caught picking a rose. Margaery climbed out of bed, wanting to go to Loras and tell him the story, hear him laugh about it and reassure her he was right there at home and as free as a bird, but his bedroom was empty. She searched every room in the house, and there was no sign of Loras anywhere, nor out in the yard with the horses or the gardens under the rose bower where he had always liked to play at being a knight. Margaery’s heart constricted in her throat, panic setting in, and she called his name louder.

‘LORAS!’

Her brother Garlan saw her rushing about as he returned from the tavern. He caught her by the arm and made her sit on the steps, catching her breath. She told him the story of her dream and begged him to believe her.

‘Margaery, it was only a dream,’ he said soothingly, rubbing her back with one broad palm. ‘He’s probably out exploring again, causing mischief somewhere in town.’

‘You don’t understand!’ Margaery protested, grabbing the collar of his shirt and shaking him with all her strength. ‘He’s locked away in a castle! The beast has him!’

‘There aren’t any such things as beasts,’ Garlan told her. ‘Come along, back to bed with you. You must have a fever. I’m sure Loras is fine wherever he is.’

* * *

 

Loras pulled hard at the last knot tying the rope of his bedsheets together, making sure it wouldn’t come loose as he climbed down, before throwing the other end out of the window, leaning out to check how far it reached. There would be a drop of ten feet, perhaps more, but he would take a hard landing on the courtyard below if it meant he could be freed from his imprisonment. He cast a last glance around his room, making sure that there was nothing else he could use to lengthen the rope even another few inches, before making his way onto the sill.

The wind outside howled, lashing the makeshift rope against the frost-covered stones of the castle turrets, snatching at Loras’ jacket as he prepared to climb down. He tried not to think about how far above the courtyard he was; how far he would fall if he slipped or let go of the rope. He had to focus on getting away from the castle and the beast inside.

A knock at the door distracted him. ‘What is it?’ he shouted, hoping his voice carried over the screaming of the wind.

The door opened a crack and an inkwell – pot-bellied and fashioned from silver, slightly tarnished, with sturdy small legs and a cap made to look like the face of a bearded man – scuttled into the room. Loras yelped in surprise, nearly falling backwards out of the window before grasping desperately at the rope, his eyes wide. He dangled for several seconds, too shocked to move, before climbing back up onto the sill, heart in his throat.

He climbed down a moment later, picking up the candelabra from the bedside table and approaching the inkwell warily to get a better look.

‘I’m sorry for startling you–’ the inkwell said, and Loras hit it with the candelabra to send it flying, waving its small legs like a marooned beetle, to land on the floor where ink started to bleed out onto the carpet. Before long, a large, wet black stain had begun to form.

‘What are you?’ he demanded, still brandishing the candelabra aloft, ready to beat the inkwell back down should it continue moving.

A small voice clearing its throat by his ear made him look around in surprise. The candelabra blinked – there was another intricate, eerily human face below the central branch – and it waved one of its filigreed arms at him with a charming smile. Loras dropped it in shock, casting his gaze around the rest of the room and wondering what would start to move next. The whole castle was alive around him, it seemed, which was a thought almost more unsettling than the beast pacing the chambers in the opposite wing of the castle.

The candelabra landed with a heavy, metallic thud and a small, pained noise before clambering back up and dusting itself off, regarding him warily as it helped the inkwell back to its feet.

‘Begging your pardon, but I’m Penrose,’ the inkwell told him. ‘I’m the master’s castellan here, and this–’ it gestured to the candelabra, ‘is Bryte, the steward.’

‘You speak,’ Loras said dumbly. ‘A speaking inkwell.’

‘You should hear the master’s dresser,’ Penrose told him, ‘he never does anything but.’ It shook its head. ‘The master’s manners are not the best, but he truly wishes that you are at least comfortable here.’

‘Comfortable? How am I to be comfortable being held prisoner?’ Loras snapped, gesturing to the room around him. Bryte shrugged helplessly, his golden face contorted in apology.

‘If there’s anything we can do for you, my boy, we are at your service.’

‘Let me go.’

‘We can’t do that, young master,’ Penrose told him, shaking his head. ‘However, the kitchen has prepared you dinner downstairs, if you’ve a hunger.’

Loras’ stomach rumbled at the mention of food. ‘But I thought he said–’

‘What the master doesn’t know won’t hurt him,’ Bryte told him, in the rolling liquid accents of the Free Cities across the sea, and Loras allowed them to lead him down to the dinner hall, where a table had been set with a plate, a pewter goblet and cutlery. A coatrack pulled out his chair for him and he sat down to the first meal he’d eaten in what felt like weeks. He was served dish after dish, so many that he couldn’t eat more than a mouthful of each: duck and ginger comfit in fireplum sauce, suckling pig, lamprey pie, salads of spinach and sweetgrass and summer greens tossed with pecans, every fruit imaginable served with cream and custard and iced sorbets. He’d never tasted anything so amazing in all his life.

When he finally protested that he couldn’t eat another morsel, the coatrack gracefully drew out his chair for him again and it, Penrose and Bryte accompanied him back to the main stairwell. Loras looked around at the great empty hall – at the tattered ribbons hanging in swathes from the friezes, the wall hangings threadbare and motheaten, the cracks in the marble flooring, and the fork in the grand staircase where the western-side banisters were marred by deep gouges as if from the beast’s claws – and turned to Penrose.

‘What’s up there?’ He pointed.

Penrose shared an uneasy glance with Bryte, which Loras noted; the inkwell shook himself off officiously before smiling at Loras.

‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’ He hopped up another stair to chivvy Loras in the right direction, tapping at his heels with small silver arms to guide him away from the western branch of the staircase towards his rooms on the east side of the castle. Loras allowed himself to be chaperoned along, but was already forming plans in his head about how he would slip past the enchanted furniture to explore.

* * *

 

The staircase leading up to the west wing was as decrepit as the rest of the castle, the stone crumbling around the edges, but the steps themselves were solid enough and bore Loras’ weight gratifyingly silently as he climbed. He soon reached a landing where every last one of the walls bore the gouge marks of five giant claws raking over the panelling, and Loras shivered to know that he had well and truly entered the beast’s domain. The paintings on the walls hung in shreds of canvas, enormous tears marring the faces of three boys in rich clothing. Loras could see little of their facial features besides noting that all three shared coal-black hair and brilliant blue eyes.

Loras pushed the scraps of canvas together with one hand, leaning closer to get a better look at the painted faces. The three boys were clearly widely spaced in age; the two eldest at the back seemed near men grown, whereas the younger was little more than a child. There was a bright, laughing expression in the younger boy’s eyes, as though he were the sort of child who never had a smile far from his lips. Loras’ brother Garlan had been much the same. It nevertheless struck Loras as a lonely sort of laughter, born of having all of one’s playmates reside in one’s own head, and his heart ached for the little boy in the painting.

One doorway had been all but obliterated; hinges were bent and misshapen where the door had been torn off, and inside there was a soft golden light somehow both alike to and entirely different from that of a candle. He made his way along the corridor towards the light and stepped through the empty jamb into a maelstrom.

The chandeliers lay in the centre of pools of broken glass, lights extinguished; the bed, ripped to pieces, with more claw marks all over the head- and foot-boards, duvet torn and feathers blowing gently in the wind from the open window. Everything was destroyed, as though a whirlwind had thrown a tantrum in this room, and he couldn’t see a single item in a good state of repair until he turned his gaze towards the window and it alighted upon a crystal bell jar.

Inside, protected from the howling of the wind and the strangling, icy fingers of the winter outside, was a rose, of such a deep, beautiful yellow as to look like beaten gold. It emitted its own light, the soft golden light Loras had seen outside in the corridor, and seemed to draw him in with its own gentle gravitational pull as he looked at it.

He lifted the jar away, extending a finger to touch one brilliant petal, eyes wide, when a massive shape appeared out of nowhere to bodily throw him to the floor with a roar that shook every last stone in the castle.

‘ _WHAT DID YOU DO TO IT?_ ’

‘I – I didn’t–’ Loras stammered, frozen in place. The beast was furious, fangs bared, huge frame trembling with anger.

‘ _YOU COULD HAVE DAMNED US ALL–_ ’

‘I didn’t mean–’

‘ _GET OUT!_ ’ it thundered, and again, louder, when he didn’t move. ‘ _GET! OUT!_ ’

Loras scrambled to his feet, fleeing down the stairs and out of the castle as fast as his legs could carry him. A horse, wild by the looks of it, with a shaggy grey coat and rolling black eyes, was munching sedately at the hedgerow; he vaulted onto its back without a second thought and kicked it into a gallop as he rode at full tilt into the woods, the gates banging in the wind behind him.


	5. The Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short this time, but a lot happens?

The horse’s hooves kicked up sprays of snow behind Loras as he rode hard for the town, ducking under grasping thorny branches and tugging hard at the animal’s mane to weave between outcroppings of rock. The woods were alive with the howling of wolves around him, but he barely heard the chilling wails over the pounding of his heartbeat and the harshness of his breathing in the cold air. He didn’t dare look behind him in case the beast was in pursuit; he thought of nothing but getting as far away from the castle as possible, shaking with fear astride the horse's naked back.

The horse suddenly reared in front of him with a scream of terror, black eyes rolling, throwing him to the ground. It bolted, galloping off into the forest with a spray of snow and a high whicker, hoofbeats terribly final in the silence that fell. Loras cursed the stupid beast and staggered upright to find himself surrounded by a pack of wolves, huge monstrous things with hungry yellow eyes and slavering maws, low growls rumbling from their barrel chests. He bent down to pick up a stick, raising it like a sword, ready to defend himself; the wolves stared him down, edging closer and snarling.

One of them tilted its head back and howled, the others continuing to slowly advance on him, hackles raised and teeth bared. Another darted in towards him, biting at his legs, and Loras jumped back and swung his stick, clubbing the creature around its ear and sending it scampering away with a growl. If anything, the wolves seemed to see this as a sign to attack, because the rest of them closed in until he was desperately fending them off with blows from the stick, never quite fast enough; every time he beat one back, another would bite at his cloak or the heel of his boot, nearly dragging him down to the ground.

He swung the stick again and the leader – the largest of them, with a thick red scar down its muzzle and a vicious glint in one yellow eye – caught the end of the stick in its jaws, tossing its head and wrenching the stick out of his grasp. Loras backed away, well aware that his last method of defence had been taken from him, until he pressed up against a snow-covered rock face and realised that he could go no further. The wolves closed in, baying and snarling, and he scrabbled frantically at the rock, trying to find something – anything – to drive them away.

The leader leapt for him again with a snarl, only to be knocked from the air by an enormous shadow that roared loud enough to make the whole wood echo.

Loras nearly collapsed to the ground in shock as the beast from the castle threw the leader of the wolves from its enormous shoulders, swiping at another with one taloned paw. The wolves left Loras alone, choosing to take down the intruder before going back to their prey, and attacked the beast instead, ripping at every inch of its body they could reach with sharp claws and sharper teeth.

Seeing the creatures distracted, Loras ran for his horse, ducking under tree branches and vaulting fallen logs until he saw the horse standing under a snow-covered oak. He grasped its mane and swung himself up, fully intending to continue making his escape to the town, when he heard the beast’s howl of pain.

A wolf had caught the beast’s forepaw in its maw, biting down until blood streamed from the wound. The beast roared in fury, tossing its head, and caught one with its antlers, leaving a deep gash in its side as it crashed into a snow bank and lay there whimpering. Another wolf leapt onto the beast’s back, knocking it forwards onto the icy ground and burying its teeth in the beast’s shoulder. This was met with a moan of agony and a huge paw reaching over one shoulder to bury its claws in the wolf’s head and physically tear the creature off. The wolf went skidding across the ice, snarling and snapping the whole way, skittering back for another attack before the beast settled on all fours and bellowed a challenge, head down, antlers – sharper than any wolf’s teeth – lowered, daring them to try again.

The wolves backed off with a round of angry snarls to cover their pride, and slunk away into the forest.

Loras hesitated, the call of freedom and his family at home strong in his heart, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to abandon the creature – hated or not – that had just saved his life. He kicked the horse into a trot and rode back to the clearing, just in time to see the beast stagger and collapse to the ground, landing heavily in the snow.

He climbed down from the horse and approached warily. There was a deep bloody tear in the beast’s leg and forepaw, another in its shoulder where the wolf had bitten it, and the creature was weak with pain, eyes rolling in its fearsome skull. He knelt down beside it, laying a hesitant hand on its uninjured shoulder, and saw those miraculous blue eyes slowly focus on his face.

‘You have to help me,’ he said softly, shifting to support one side of its body to get up, ‘you have to stand.’

Together they managed to haul the beast to its hind feet, and Loras supported it over to the horse, which surprisingly stood still and allowed the beast to be heaved onto its back. Loras tore a strip from the creature’s cloak for a rein, and knotted it around the horse’s neck before leading it back to the castle.

* * *

The beast snarled, wrenching its shoulder away from where Loras was dabbing at it with a damp cloth.

‘That hurts!’

‘Well, if you held still, it wouldn’t hurt as much!’ Loras snapped, pressing the cloth back against the wound and ignoring the next roar of pain. The beast’s temper held few terrors for him now, having been on the receiving end of its fury one too many times. Its constant flinching away from the cloth as he tried to clean its wounds, however, did annoy him, and he was starting to consider the merits of tying the creature to its bed to enforce immobility long enough to tend to its hurts.

‘Well if you hadn’t run away, none of this would have happened!’ the beast snapped back petulantly.

‘Well if you hadn’t frightened me, I wouldn’t have run away!’

‘Well _you_ shouldn’t have been in the West Wing!’

‘Well _you_ should learn to control your temper!’ Loras retorted heatedly, and the beast just huffed and rolled over. Its back was raw and still oozing blood from multiple scratches and bites, and Loras felt a wave of guilt crash over him. The creature was right. If he hadn’t gone where he wasn’t supposed to, he would never have been frightened into running away, and neither of them would have gotten into the situation where they had nearly been killed by the wolves. Still, he’d brought up a valid point as well in that the beast needed to learn to control its ire.

He continued to mop at its wounds gently, and this time, the beast suffered in silence, with barely a whimper to punctuate the dabbing of the cloth against its skin. Loras tended to it as gently as he could manage, even going so far as to rub soothing circles through its mane as he cleaned the wound on its shoulder, and before long the wounds were clean enough to be dressed and the beast was asleep.

Bryte and Penrose turned to Loras.

‘That was a very brave thing you did, young master,’ Bryte said, bowing deeply to Loras from his position on the nightstand. ‘We are eternally grateful.’

Loras frowned. ‘Why do you care for it so much? It’s cursed you somehow…’

‘We’ve been looking after the master since he was a young lad,’ Penrose told him sadly. ‘Since he was just a boy, when his parents died. Locked in the castle against his wishes whilst the army laid siege outside and his brothers were off fighting the war. We’re all he has left, all he’s ever known. We couldn’t abandon him, now or ever.’

Loras remembered the painting he’d seen in the West Wing of the three boys, and imagined the youngest – bonny and blue-eyed and full of laughter as he’d been in the painting, wasting away behind the walls of this castle, afraid that every day would bring the news that his brothers had been killed in battle, with only his servants for company. He couldn’t imagine losing his own family like that, let alone having grown up in a place as cold and foreboding as this. He looked back at the beast, sleeping on its pillows, suddenly heartsick.

‘How old was he?’

‘Four,’ Penrose told him sadly, and ushered them all out of the room, leaving his master to his rest.


	6. The Book / Little Lord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst ahoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (That chapter count keeps changing doesn't it? It's because I have no idea how many it's going to take to finish the story. Welp. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯)
> 
> Remember the book from the 2017 remake? Me too. Other than the addition of the song _Evermore_ , it's my favourite thing about the remake. I'm making good (debatable) use of it here, except it works more like Dumbledore's pensieve in that it transports the user to the past/a memory, instead of the current.

Renly awoke the next morning to see Loras sat beside him on the bed, a dish of water in his lap, cleaning his wounds gently with a wet cloth, quickly pretending to still be asleep to better observe the boy’s behaviour. He was startled at the tenderness and delicacy of Loras’ touch as he pressed the cloth lightly against the worst of the scratches. The rough flannel and the soap in the water stung in the wounds, but Renly was too absorbed in watching the boy’s face as he tended to him, the soft expression in Loras’ brown eyes and the concentration with which he applied himself to his task. Renly felt his stomach swoop giddily and closed his eyes as Loras gently brushed his mane out of the way to clean a scratch on the nape of his neck. The feeling of the boy’s fingers threading through his hair, butterfly-light over his skin, felt like nothing he’d ever experienced before.

* * *

Loras finished cleaning the beast’s wounds and put the dish and the flannel aside, climbing off the bed. He was startled by a yawn and the creak of the bedsprings as the beast rolled over, eyes opening to fix him in the centre of his bright blue gaze. Loras felt a blush climbing up from his chest and ducked his head, determined not to let the beast see the pinkening of his cheeks, quickly turning away to head for his own rooms in the eastern wing. A quiet huff of breath from behind him almost sounded like the beast had been about to ask him to stay, and he was far too flustered to allow that to happen.

He all but fled to the east wing, reaching the corridor where his rooms were located before spotting Penrose and Bryte outside, whispering among themselves and darting quick glances at his door. Not wanting to know what the servants were gossiping about (and he had a feeling he might know), Loras spun on his heel and headed back down the main staircase to explore the rest of the castle. He wandered through the warren of stone corridors, seeing several suits of armour along the way whose visors he peeked inside, half expecting them to talk. They remained silent, however, and did not remark on his passing as he meandered through the lower levels of the castle before coming to an enormous pair of double doors.

He knocked warily – after all, he had learned his lesson about not entering anywhere in the castle without permission – and the doors swung open of themselves, leading into a library which was probably the size of Loras’ entire house back in the town and filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books.

There were more books there than Loras had ever seen in his life, and he stared around in awe, thinking how much his brother Willas would love to see it. (Willas was the family bookworm, a voracious reader ever since childhood when a fall from a horse had crippled him and left him bedridden for weeks, during which time books had been his almost singular solace.) He crossed the room towards the fireplace, which blazed to life the moment he stepped close; a chair scuttled on elegantly-carved feet across the flagstones to place itself right before the crackling flames, inviting him to sit.

One of the books on the shelf nearest the fire caught his attention. Bound in royal-blue leather with gold detailing picking out the title, something in an ancient dialect of Valyria across the Narrow Sea, the book was no larger than the palm of his hand; he pulled it out and settled down in the armchair, opening the cover and looking at the frontispiece.

Inside, the book showed a map of Westeros, outlined with delicate brushstrokes, and there seemed to be a golden dust swirling around on the page like motes on a breeze. Loras brushed his fingers over the drawing and felt a sudden heavy pull in his navel before lights burst in front of his eyes, blinding, and he blinked.

When his eyes reopened, he was stood in his rooms, though they were unrecognisable. Gone were the swathes of fabric twined around the rafters, however ragged they had been; gone were the sumptuous pillows and eiderdown duvets. The place looked as grim and grey as a prison, the air chilled, and a storm lashed outside, rain hammering the windowpanes and a gale screaming as it tore at the stone walls. A small child sat in one corner, huge eyes filled with tears as he cowered against a wardrobe, hugging his thin knees to his chest. Loras took a step closer and looked again, and suddenly it hit him.

The boy from the painting. The beast, before he became a beast.

In the flesh, even as grubby and half-starved as he was, he was the most beautiful child. His eyes were the blue of a summer sea, his round cheeks pale and yet still showing a dusting of freckles in small starbusts across the bridge of his nose. He was crying, tears leaving tracks through the grime on his face, and Loras’ heart broke just to look at him. Seeing this tiny, terrified boy, he couldn’t imagine what had happened to create the monster he would become later.

The boy didn’t seem to see him as Loras crept towards the window, peering out through the rain. A massive army lay just outside the castle walls, a sea of tents made from green silk with banners fluttering in the strong winds. Golden roses were proudly emblazoned on every one, and he felt his heart constrict in his chest.

Loras knew that sigil. He would know it anywhere.

It was his own.

Shaken, he stared out at the host below him, his knuckles white where he clutched the sill of the window. Years ago, his father had spoken of being a general during the civil war, of leading a host in a siege of a castle before his side lost and the new king granted him a pardon and his and his family’s lives in exchange for their lands and titles. Mace Tyrell became a merchant in a small town, and Stannis Baratheon became king. However, Loras’ father had never mentioned exactly how close to home the besieged castle had lain, nor the fact that the ruling lord of said castle was a boy of four years.

Loras felt sick. His family had been the men starving the young lord and his servants. He had spent so long hating the beast for what he had done to him, tearing him away from his family and holding him prisoner inside the castle. Loras’ father, ten years before, had done the same, only in reverse.

‘Stannis?’ the boy whimpered from the corner, his voice high and wobbly. ‘Stannis!’

A man came through the door a moment later, kneeling down beside the boy and scooping him into his arms.

‘Come now, little lord,’ he said, and Loras recognised Penrose’s voice. ‘Come now. Your brother is away, you know that, but he’ll be back soon. When the war is done, and all the soldiers have gone, Lord Stannis will be back. Or maybe Lord Robert. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Lord Robert coming back? Telling you all the stories about the battles he fought, just like the knights in your books.’ He rubbed circles on the boy’s back, rocking him gently like a father with a doted-upon son. ‘Come now, little lord, don’t be frightened. It’ll all be over soon.’

‘You said that yesterday,’ the boy mumbled into his collar, small hands fisted around the worn material of Penrose’s doublet. ‘And the day before. When will it be over, Penrose?’

‘Soon, little lord,’ the castellan said soothingly. ‘Soon. That’s all I know.’

‘You won’t leave, will you, Penrose?’ the boy asked, unburying his face from the castellan’s shoulder to blink wetly up at him, lip trembling. ‘I don’t want you to go too.’

‘I’ll not be going anywhere, little lord,’ Penrose told him, ‘that I promise you. As long as you need me, I’ll be here.’ He unfolded his legs from beneath them and picked the boy up, carrying him over to the bed. ‘Now, little lord, try and get some rest.’

‘I can’t sleep,’ the child told him, ‘I’m hungry.’

‘I know,’ Penrose said heavily, ‘I know. Maybe the smuggler will be by soon, and we’ll have something from him. Or I could see about what the kitchens have left. But you know we’ve got scarcely a bite at all, and that to last us for as many moons as it takes Davos to come by.’

‘I’m not all that hungry after all,’ the boy said sadly, lying down on the bed. His stomach rumbled loudly, belaying his words, and Loras swore he could see Penrose’s heartbreak on his face. The castellan sat with the child, still murmuring soothing nothings and rubbing circles on his thin back until he fell asleep, and then he sat at the boy’s side for a long time, head in his hands, and wept.

* * *

Loras landed back in the library with a heavy thud, tears streaming down his cheeks and chest still wracked with sobs. He heaved, vomiting bile onto the rug, knuckling at his eyes to smear the tears away and coughing. He’d been so _blind_.

Penrose found him ten minutes later, sat on the rug staring blankly into the fire, the book lying innocuously on the arm of the chair. The inkwell hopped over and tapped Loras’ knee with one small, silver hand, waving the other in front of his face to get his attention.

‘Young master? Are you alright?’

‘Why didn’t you tell me it was the Tyrells who besieged the castle?’ Loras asked him, looking down at the enchanted servant with a pained expression. ‘My father tortured and starved you all for years whilst he and his army banqueted outside your walls, and you didn’t tell me.’

‘I recognised your aspect the moment I saw you, young master,’ Penrose said. ‘You take after your father. The same curls, and his same temper, too. But it wasn’t your fault, just like it wasn’t the master’s fault. We can’t blame ourselves for what others have done to us in the past.’

‘But it was _my father_.’

‘Exactly, young master. Your father, not you. We don’t blame you, and the master won’t, either.’

Loras wished he could be so sure.


	7. Something There / Tale As Old As Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's here. The moment you've all been waiting for.

The snow outside the castle was laying thickly on the ground, crunching underfoot, as Loras and the beast wandered through the gardens, under the bowers of white roses Margaery had plucked. Loras allowed his fingers to brush over the petals, marvelling at how delicate they were, at how the frozen dew glittered there as though every bloom had been dusted with minuscule diamonds.

Renly glanced sideways at the boy through the corner of his eye. Loras was standing beneath one of the bowers of roses, an expression of wonder on his face as he cupped one of the flowers in his palm, examining the petals closely. His long eyelashes brushed his cheekbones as he looked down, drawing Renly’s eyes to the constellations of freckles across the tanned skin – tanned still, despite having been locked away in a dark, gloomy castle beset by eternal winter – and his breath puffed in small clouds from lips as full and red as apples.

Loras turned his head, his mouth opening to ask something, and Renly quickly looked away, glad for once that he was covered in fur and Loras wouldn’t be able to see the blush undoubtedly rising in his cheeks. He had noticed before that the boy was beautiful – he may be a monster, but he wasn’t _blind_. However, looking at Loras now, he seemed to have new eyes, ones that noticed every last freckle and dimple in the boy’s light golden skin, and the sight set his heart aflutter in his chest.

Not that he had any hope of Loras ever returning those feelings. After all, he was still a beast, and the boy still his prisoner. Captivity bred fear and contempt, not love.

* * *

Loras, too, had noticed a change in their relationship. The beast had gone from angry and snappish to almost shy and adorably awkward in his presence; more than once, he had caught in the corner of his vision the beast staring at him with a curious expression almost alike to longing in his blue eyes, and – to his great surprise – it didn’t disgust him. On the contrary, it gave him a giddy feeling, his stomach dropping pleasantly, and a blush rose to his cheeks. All the same, it confused and alarmed him a little, and he did his best to push those strange feelings away.

The garden was ice and snow all over, the trees glittering with hoarfrost and limned with white. Loras knelt down by the fountain as the beast ducked under one of the bowers, pretending to be interested in checking up on his roses, and grinned wickedly as an idea popped into his head. Scooping up a handful of snow, he shaped it carefully into a ball before throwing it with perfect aim to smack wetly into the back of the beast’s head. He whipped around to glower at Loras, eyes narrowing threateningly, before an equally mischievous grin broke out on his face and he bent to retaliate.

Loras’ eyes widened at the size of the snowball sailing towards him. It hit him full in the face with enough force to knock him backwards into a snowdrift, and from then on, the snowball fight had begun in earnest. Before long, both combatants were crouched behind battlements of ice, stockpiling snowballs within arm’s reach and occasionally popping their heads up above the parapets to scope out the other. Loras narrowly missed another headshot, the snowball grazing the beast’s antlers and sticking to one tine in a wet clump before falling away; the beast retaliated with another enormous snow boulder, which smacked into Loras’ defences and in fact built them up slightly.

Loras grinned, breaking away from his cover to throw snowball after snowball, dodging between bowers and fountains to gain the high ground at the top of the garden. He wedged himself in between a stone folly and the wall separating the garden from the empty orchard at the rear of the castle and started building up another supply of missiles whilst the beast struggled uphill towards him under the assault.

The beast reached him and grinned, a massive snowball in his hand ready to throw, and Loras laughed, shrinking back into the space between the two structures. The beast tried to follow, only to find that his antlers clacked noisily against the stone on either side, holding him back. The more he struggled, the more hilarious Loras found it, until he was collapsed against the wall laughing helplessly at the expression of amused frustration on the creature’s face, huffing and glowering up at his own antlers as if to say _Why me?_

Loras managed to get a hold of himself a moment later, wiping the tears of laughter away from his cheeks, and allowed the beast to drag him out of his hiding space, dumping the entire load of snow on top of his head until it clung in flakes to his curls and slowly melted down the back of his neck. He smiled at the beast, a genuine beaming smile, and laughed again as the creature ducked his head shyly, clearing his throat with an awkward croaking noise.

The beast led him back inside to dry off and warm up, heading into the main hall to settle Loras by the fire, offering him a blanket and a towel to dry his hair. Loras accepted both gratefully and sat down in one of the armchairs, towelling his damp curls and allowing the soft heat of the fire to soak in. The beast settled in the armchair opposite, drying himself off with another towel. He was watching Loras with a strange expression, part longing, part fear, and Loras was about to ask him what was wrong when he blurted out:

‘We should have a ball tonight.’

‘A ball?’

‘A dance. Tonight.’ The beast was looking anywhere except at Loras now, and his awkwardness made the boy smile. ‘You… would you like that?’

‘I’d love to.’

* * *

Renly’s heart was hammering against his ribs as he made his way to the top of the staircase. Feeling ridiculously overdressed in a black velvet doublet with slashed sleeves showing the gold silk lining, black breeches, and a gold ribbon holding his mane back, he descended slowly to the landing where the eastern and western wing staircases joined the grand staircase leading down to the ballroom. He stopped once he reached the landing and looked up just in time to see Loras make his way out of his rooms and come to join him.

The boy looked absolutely breathtaking. Loras was dressed in an understated forest green that brought out the flecks of gold and hazel in his eyes, curly hair mostly tamed into a neat queue at the nape of his neck with only a few springy curls escaping to frame his face; his breeches were a muted gold, and his legs and feet had been left bare below the knee, his tread soundless on the stone of the staircase as he descended. Once he reached Renly, he took his arm with a soft smile, and allowed him to lead him into the ballroom at the foot of the stairs.

The chandeliers were lit, bathing the room in soft golden light, as they walked out to the centre of the floor, Loras unable to help gazing around in amazement. The floor-to-ceiling windows lining two of the four walls allowed starlight to stream in, making it feel as if they weren’t contained in a room at all, instead simply standing under the heavens with the stars in attendance. Music, soft and sweet, was coming from somewhere – no doubt another of the enchanted servants, hidden away in some corner where they wouldn’t be encroaching on the moment – and he kept his eyes fixed on the beast’s face as he bowed deeply to begin.

The beast bowed in response, taking his hand, and Loras pressed himself in close, the way he had seen women do at dances in the town. He wasn’t afraid to let the beast take the lead; if anything, there was less chance of Loras standing on his toes that way, which was part of the reason he’d chosen to go barefoot. If the beast didn’t have to wear shoes, then neither would he. It was almost unbearably intimate, being so close to the great doubleted chest, one powerful arm around his back and the other so hesitant and gentle as they linked hands. He kept his eyes on the beast’s face as they started to move, the beast leading in a step either side before spinning them around in a slow circle.

The steps came naturally after that, neither having to look down to keep track of their feet; their gazes locked, blue on brown, and they moved with one another as gracefully and fluently as if they had been born partners. Up in the rafters, Penrose and Bryte watched the scene unfold, barely able to contain their excitement. Having known Renly so long, both of them recognised the expression of affection in his eyes, the tenderness with which he held Loras’ hand as he led him around the floor; every single moment they spent dancing spoke volumes about the love their master already held for the boy in his arms, and they could feel the breaking of the curse hanging in the air like the sun about to burst through clouds.

The confines of the room around them seemed to fade as Loras gazed into the beast’s eyes, until they were floating on clouds and dancing among the stars, music distant in their ears. His heart was beating erratically in his chest in a manner that had nothing to do with the physical exercise and everything to do with the way the beast was looking at him and the closeness of their bodies as he was bent backwards, dipped until his hair almost brushed the floor. Despite the taxing nature of the movement, he felt the safest he had ever been within the castle, certain that the beast wouldn’t drop him, and was proved right a moment later when the creature slowly drew him back up as the music faded away and they were left slowly rotating in the centre of the room, entirely absorbed in one another.

The beast led him out onto the balcony outside, paws on the low wall, staring up at the stars. He turned his head to look at Loras.

‘Could you ever be happy here?’

Loras smiled a little sadly. ‘Can anyone be happy if they’re not free?’

The beast looked down at the grounds below, taking a deep breath. Loras moved his hand to cover one enormous furred forepaw.

‘That’s not to say I couldn’t be happy with you, perhaps, given time. Just that… I am your prisoner here, and love can’t flourish in captivity.’

‘Then you must go free,’ the beast told him, and the look in his eyes showed he meant it.


	8. Attack on the Castle

Loras’ heart sat heavy in his chest as he rode through the town gate. The mirror the beast had given him was tucked safely away in the roll of his belongings tied to the horse’s saddle (another gift from the beast, or rather the pitchfork/stableboy in charge of horse husbandry by his master’s permission), and Loras had also taken one of the golden stag cufflinks from the creature’s shirt, palmed away during their dance. He untied his hair from its neat queue and strung the cufflink onto it before tying it around his neck, tucking it beneath his shirt, the gold still warm from the creature’s body against his heart.

Margaery was the first to see him, sat at her window watching the sun rise over the hills. Her cry of surprise was loud enough to wake the whole town, it seemed, because suddenly shutters were being thrown open and many more voices joined the clamour, and before long every inhabitant had turned up on the cobbled main street to see the prodigal son ride back to his father’s house.

Margaery ran down the stairs to catch his horse by the bridle and let him down, and she flung her arms around him the minute he was within reach, burying her face in his shoulder and clinging tight enough to half-strangle him.

‘You’re here!’ she sobbed, ‘You’ve come back…’

He prised her arms from around her neck and stepped back, a lump in his throat too large for words. The sight of his sister after so long trapped in the beast’s castle was overwhelming, and yet he couldn’t rid himself of thoughts about the beast, lingering alone in his crumbling castle with his servants and that beautiful, terrible rose. Three petals were all it had had when Loras had left; three petals to fall before the servants became household knick-knacks and the beast was truly alone for the rest of his days. No matter what he had done, Loras thought, nobody deserved such a cruel fate.

‘I don’t understand,’ Margaery whispered, her eyes huge and still sparkling with tears, ‘how did you escape?’

‘He set me free,’ Loras told her. ‘He let me go.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Nor do I,’ came the voice of Joffrey Baratheon from behind them. Joffrey fancied himself a great hunter like his father Robert; at fifteen, he was not yet a man grown, but he had an entire arsenal of hunting weapons mounted on the walls of his family’s tavern and boasted to anyone who would listen of how many animals he had killed with them. ‘Show me this beast, Tyrell, who supposedly kept you prisoner.’

Loras had some choice words for Joffrey about what made someone a beast, but it was neither the time nor the place to share them, and so he pulled the mirror out of his saddle roll and told it, ‘Show me the beast.’

The creature appeared reflected in the glass, looking out of one of the many windows in the west wing. There was something horribly sad about his slumped posture, the way he seemed to be pining away, and Loras felt a throb of pain in his chest, guilt swamping him.

Joffrey snatched the mirror and recoiled in horror.

‘Look at this creature!’ he screamed, holding the mirror aloft so that the people could see. There were cries of shock and fear, many of the assembled townsfolk shrinking back into the shadows of doorways and under eaves as if the beast could climb out of the mirror to attack them. Loras watched their horrified reactions with a frisson of fear; protectiveness surged in his chest and he snatched the mirror back, cradling it against his chest.

‘No!’ he cried, shaking his head. ‘Don’t be afraid! He is kind, and gentle, and–’

‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you loved the hideous creature,’ Joffrey scoffed. He grabbed the mirror again and brandished it at the townsfolk. ‘Look at its fangs! Its claws! It’s a monster!’

‘He’s not a monster, Joffrey,’ Loras spat, ‘you are!’

Joffrey’s father, Robert, stepped forwards, clapping a huge hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘It’s a kindness, lad,’ he told Loras. ‘Sooner or later this thing is going to come down from his castle and wreak havoc. It has to die.’

‘Please,’ Loras begged, ‘listen to me. He wouldn’t do anyone any harm. If you could only see him – meet him–’

‘The only place I want to see that creature is with his head on my wall,’ Joffrey yelled, and the townspeople cheered their agreement. He turned to Loras. ‘However, we can’t have you running off to warn it, so…’ He turned to the blacksmith, Clegane, a hulking man near as tall as Robert with a terrible burned face who was his favourite enforcer. ‘Lock him away.’

Loras was transported, fighting every step of the way, to the inn’s cider cellar, where he was locked away amongst the barrels as the townsfolk gathered every weapon retrievable – pitchforks from the fields, axes, knives, bows with quivers of arrows, even large sticks to use as clubs – and Joffrey plucked his favourite hunting knives down from their mount above the fireplace. He and Robert led the march towards the castle, Joffrey with the mirror in hand, and Loras still screaming for them to stop from the abandoned cellar.

* * *

Renly was slumped on one of the rooftop promenades, hunched there like a living gargoyle, when the flickering lights of a trail of torches breached the horizon. He heard them as well, a chanting sort of song, the music of death arriving at his door. _Let them come_ , he thought, _let them come and take us all_. Renly had no intention of barricading the castle against this siege; there was nothing left for him to protect but a crumbling ruin. The rose had lost another petal that morning, and Penrose was now struggling to climb the stairs due to the stiffness in his metal joints, whilst Bryte was losing all manoeuvrability in his metal hands and the maids had grown more feathers than ever.

His steward appeared at his feet, huffing and puffing. ‘Master,’ he gasped, ‘they are coming to storm the castle!’

‘Let them come,’ Renly told him despondently, staring at the courtyard below. Bryte stared at him, aghast.

‘But master–’

‘I said, let them.’

The steward bowed stiffly and left him without another word.

* * *

Downstairs, the servants amassed themselves in the main hall, everyone aflutter. Penrose was organising the troops, as he put it, directing the hat stands to barricade the doors with whatever they could find. The harp laid the whole bulk of his weight against the doors, wedging himself under the doorknob to try and hold them closed. Penrose nodded approvingly at him and continued to order everyone else into their positions.

‘After all,’ he told them forcefully, ‘if it’s a fight they want, it’s a fight they shall get!’

Not a moment later, the first thud of a battering ram against the castle doors made the strings of the harp twang discordantly, one of them snapping with a whimper of pain. One of the hat stands made to shuffle over to help, but Penrose quelled its movement with a fierce look and a shake of his small silver head. Wait, he mouthed at them all, and knobbed heads nodded from various locations around the hall. In the kitchens, the range could be heard pumping the bellows, several kettles whistling as they boiled; the whole castle waited with baited breath, tension as taut as a bowstring in the air, as the pounding at the door continued until the walls shook and the harp moaned aloud as string after string broke.

At a gesture from Penrose, the harp moved aside just as the doors were rammed again, and they burst open to admit the townspeople, carrying a large marble statue from the gardens which dropped to the floor to break into pieces, marble dust all over the flagstones leaving a large crack in the flooring. None of the enchanted servants moved as the townsfolk warily made their way inside, Joffrey and Robert leading the way, Joffrey with his knives in his belt and a crossbow over his shoulder and Robert swinging a warhammer larger than his son’s head.

Joffrey made to go up the stairs, and Penrose gave the signal.

Pandemonium erupted. Chests came alive to spit books and random belongings all over those closest to them; the range scuttled out of the kitchen, still burning fiercely, to arm itself with knives from the drawers and charge at several of the ringleaders of the march. The tea kettles squirted boiling water at their nearest victims. Ragged banderoles were torn down from the walls by the hatstands to create silk trip wires and velvet restraints and gags. It was chaos, bloody chaos, and the castle echoed with screams of pain and fear from all around.

A chandelier was loosened from its ceiling bracket by Penrose and the silverware, crashing down on the heads of several townspeople and leaving them pinned beneath its heavy iron arms to the sound of their assailants’ raucous laughter and victorious cheering. A townswoman with a large axe swung it at the harp only to have a hatstand step smartly in front of her and box her ears with its small fists, swinging them furiously like a champion welterweight. Penrose shouted encouragement from his position atop the next chandelier, where he and a dining fork were working on loosening the brackets for the rest of the lighting.

Robert swung his warhammer to smash a wardrobe out of the way, bulldozing past it up the stairs, followed closely by Joffrey. The townspeople shouted for them to stop and help subdue the rebellious furnishings, but were ignored; after all, the Baratheons had larger prey awaiting them, and Joffrey had been promised the beast’s head.

Robert took the eastern staircase, and Joffrey the west when they reached the landing. The boy took a bolt from his quiver to load his crossbow, racing up the stairs until he reached the dilapidated corridor where the beast’s rooms could be found. The glow from the rose behind the door at the end quickly drew his attention, and it was there that he headed first, crossbow primed and ready in front of him as he approached.


	9. The Hunter

‘LET ME OUT!’

Loras was battering his shoulder against the cellar doors, trying desperately to break the barriers down, when Margaery’s voice above him made him stop. She called for him to move out of the way, and he stepped down from the ladder in just enough time to avoid the battleaxe that had until minutes ago been hanging on Robert Baratheon’s tavern wall splintering his skull along with the cellar doors. It was yanked away before being swung again with a woody _thunk!_ , hands appearing in the cracks left behind to tear the doors apart.

Loras stared up into the faces of his siblings, Garlan brandishing the battleaxe and Margaery with her jaw set, pale and determined, in the moonlight. Garlan dropped the axe and extended his hand to Loras, pulling him up and out of the cellar with enough force to feel as though he was pulling Loras’ arms out of their sockets.

‘We have to go, we have to warn him–’

‘Way ahead of you, little brother,’ came his oldest brother’s voice from behind him, and Loras spun around. Willas was holding the reins of a horse, already tacked up and placidly waiting, in one hand, whilst two more were tied up on his other side.

Loras took the proffered reins without a second word, Garlan giving him a boost up into the saddle, and wheeled the horse around to gallop hard for the castle. A couple of seconds later, Margaery and Garlan were following hard on his heels. Willas would have to be left behind, however, after the fall from his horse as a child had crippled him, he was no longer half the rider he had been and none of them could risk his slowing them down.

* * *

Renly’s ears pricked at the sound of echoing footsteps trampling through his solar. The villagers had found him at last, it would seem, despite the best efforts of Penrose, Bryte and the rest of the servants downstairs. He stared down at the courtyard, watching the chaos of servants chasing townsfolk out of the castle and into the gardens, the crashing of statues being toppled to the ground and the rustle of hedgerows as people sought refuge behind their tall, leafy confines. It had started to rain, the sky black with clouds and ominous rumblings announcing an incoming lightning storm from the bay far to the west.

The sound of glass shattering behind him made him turn his head; a boy, no older than fifteen, climbed through the ruin of his solar window with a loaded crossbow aimed squarely at his head, a vicious smirk on his lips, golden hair hanging in his green eyes. The sight of him prickled something in Renly’s memory, gold hair and green eyes and this sort of martial arrogance, but the child was no more than that – a child – and therefore below his notice. He would not allow himself to become the monster the townspeople thought he was by mauling a fifteen-year-old boy to death on the rooftop of his castle.

The crossbow thrummed and an explosion of pain made him roar in agony as the bolt was loosed to lodge itself squarely in his shoulder, the barbed tip slightly exposed where it had torn through the tight, furred flesh. Blood was seeping down his back, matting in his fur, and his arm was suddenly hideously weak, limp by his side when he tried to move it. The boy laughed and made to load his crossbow again; Renly shook his head, trying to clear the cloud of pain from his thoughts, and half-dragged himself away, taking cover as best he could behind the stone gargoyles edging the roof.

‘Coward!’ the boy screamed.

Renly, dizzy from loss of blood and feeling sick at the sight of it pooling beneath him, groaned. It was a taunt he had heard often from his brother Robert, a man who revelled in warfare and bloodshed and weaponry. Renly, who had no taste for killing things and seeing blood soaking into the fine fabrics of his clothes – whether his own or anyone else’s – did not respond, simply rested his bulk against the shingle of the roof and tried to catch his breath. Another crossbow bolt shot past his head, barely missing the top of his skull, and he cringed away from it, breathing hard as panic started to build in his chest.

The child was not giving up, and Renly was not in a position to take defensive measures. The only path left open to him was avoidance.

Hauling himself to his feet, he squinted through the rain at the folly on the tower opposite, trying to ignore the twelve feet of dead air between the two and the seventy-foot drop should he fail to reach it. Coiling his body to make the leap, he heard the boy shout and curse behind him, struggling to load his crossbow fast enough. Now was the only time he could do it, the last chance he had of escape; Renly gritted his teeth against the pain in his shoulder and leapt.

He crashed into the tower, claws scrabbling for purchase on the rain-slick stone as he just missed the platform. He was already skidding down the stone in a spray of marble dust, voice strident with fear, when a hand grasped his wrist and he looked up to see Loras hanging from a rope, face red with the effort of keeping Renly’s huge body from falling.

‘You have to help me,’ he managed, rain in his eyes and voice strained with effort, ‘I can’t hold you up all by myself.’

Renly could have lifted mountains in that moment, seeing Loras there at the top of the tower. The boy was hanging from a gnarled, twisted old rope knotted around one of the pillars of the folly; once Renly had hold of it in his other paw, Loras started to drag them both back up to safety. At the top of the tower stood two more people, who helped Loras haul him to safety. Renly recognised the girl who had originally stolen the rose; the other was a stranger to him, but clearly another relative, as he shared the other two’s brown eyes and the same curly brown hair quickly lengthening in the downpour, though he was stockier with the beginnings of a beard darkening his sharp jawline.

‘My brother, Garlan,’ Loras told him. The girl rolled her eyes.

‘Loras, perhaps we could save the introductions for later when Joffrey and Robert aren’t trying to hunt us all down and kill us.’

Renly huffed a laugh through his nose only to gasp and stagger in agony. The jump had wrenched the crossbow bolt in his shoulder and the pain was now making his eyes roll back in his head, vision going black around the edges. He fought to stay conscious as Loras startled, his hands quickly coming up to support Renly’s shoulders as he lowered him to the ground.

‘You’re hurt,’ he said, his voice wobbling. Renly blinked hard, trying to focus on his face, and a pair of tearful, panicky brown eyes swam into his field of vision.

‘I’m alright,’ he mumbled, shaking his great antlered head. ‘It’s a scratch, nothing more.’

‘There’s a crossbow bolt hanging out of your shoulder,’ Loras snapped back at him, hands fluttering anxiously around the wound as he tried to assess it without causing any further damage. A distant twang echoed and Margaery yelled _Look out!_ seconds before another bolt drove hard into Renly’s ribs and he roared, the sound quickly dying away to a gurgle as his lung was punctured and began to fill up with blood.

Loras scrambled to his feet, standing over Renly’s prone body defensively, scanning the rooftops for Joffrey and his crossbow. The boy was leaning, casual as you please, against a gargoyle, already loading again, his eyes narrowed as he took aim.

‘Move aside, Tyrell, or I’ll kill you too!’

‘I won’t!’ Loras screamed back, hoarse, as Margaery and Garlan did their best to move Renly out of danger. The folly was tiny, however, and afforded little to no protection; they’d had to climb along the rooftops to reach it, and there was no way they’d be able to make their way back inside the castle to safety whilst taking Renly with them.

‘Loras,’ Renly forced out, ‘leave.’

‘No.’ The boy turned to shake his head at Renly, setting his jaw mulishly and shaking his head.

‘It’s not safe up here. You could be killed.’

‘If I move, you will be.’

‘This isn’t the time to be a hero,’ Renly snarled, trying to struggle to his feet. Loras pushed him back down.

‘I won’t _let_ you. I’m not leaving you, not here, not with him.’ Loras’ voice was fierce, and there were tears in his eyes as he glared his defiance.

‘Gods damn you, Loras, will you never do as I ask even this one time?’

‘Not if you insist on asking me to do things that will get you killed!’ Loras snapped, holding Renly by the shoulders to keep him pinned behind the pillar. He opened his mouth to refute Renly’s upcoming retort when there was another twanging noise and a bolt appeared in a bloom of red on his chest, metal glinting in the moonlight as the stain began to spread. They both stared at it in horror as Loras gagged softly, blood bubbling up around his lips, and collapsed forwards onto Renly’s chest, staring up at him in panic.

Margaery screamed. Garlan flew to his younger brother’s side, helpless.

‘Loras! Loras, you – you’re going to be okay,’ he babbled, immediately moving to try and pull the bolt out. Renly stopped him with a huge paw on his hand.

‘No! If you pull it out, you – you’ll only kill him faster.’

‘This is your fault!’ Garlan yelled at him, tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘If he’d never met you, this would never have happened! _You_ murdered him!’

‘G-Gar,’ Loras choked out, hands moving sluggishly to grasp at Garlan’s shoulders, ‘no. My – choice. Had to – stay.’

‘Loras,’ Renly murmured desperately, eyes stinging, ‘shush. Don’t speak.’

‘Have to,’ Loras retorted stubbornly, despite the gurgling and wheezing of every breath he drew. ‘Got to – tell you–’

‘Loras, please,’ Renly begged, shaking his head. Tears dripped onto Loras’ cheeks, Renly’s huge paws – claws like knives, capable of crushing boulders to dust, made for slaughter and killing – gentle on the boy’s face as he smoothed Loras’ wet curls away from his clammy brow. ‘Don’t,’ he pleaded, ‘don’t speak. There’s nothing you need to say that badly.’

Loras glowered at him before he drew in another rattling breath, face contorted with pain. Garlan shoved Renly away, drawing his brother’s head into his lap and stroking his hair, babbling quietly to him all manner of empty comforts as Loras’ blood drained onto the stone beneath them and soaked into the pale fabric of Garlan’s breeches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the cliffhanger! I'm uploading 2 today because otherwise you'll all kill me. I PROMISE CHAPTER 10 WILL BE UP ASAP.


	10. A Strange Magic

Joffrey kept his eyes on the beast, sheltered away in its little tower on the other side of the roof, cradling the stupid Tyrell boy’s head as he died. Joffrey had given them all more warning than they deserved. It was disgusting, the way the boy had leapt to the creature’s defence; the arrogance he had shown in daring to try and protect it. Joffrey had enjoyed loosing the bolt towards him; the sight of the boy’s slim frame staggering and collapsing, the shaft of the bolt protruding from his back as he sank to the floor, gave him a vicious sense of satisfaction. The girl and his brother would be too busy trying to keep the idiot alive to defend the beast, and then Joffrey could have them all.

He stepped onto the roof, making his way across. The shingles were slick in the rain, thunder crashing and rolling over their heads, lightning crackling as it forked around the castle. He nearly lost his footing as one of the roof tiles slipped free, skidding down the roof and off the edge of the frieze to splinter on the cobbles of the courtyard far below. Joffrey paid it no notice, instead pulling his knives out of his belt and keeping one in either hand as he approached the beast’s hideaway slowly.

The creature saw him coming and roared, struggling to its feet, staggering out of the folly to meet him. It was clearly badly wounded, favouring its left side, one arm hanging limp and useless by its side. Joffrey remembered his father’s warnings that a wounded beast was at its most dangerous; he ignored them completely, confident in his hunting ability and the strength of his young limbs against the sodden, staggering mess of a beast shambling across the roof towards him.

He spun one of the knives in his hand, baring his teeth and smirking.

‘Did you love him?’ he taunted, spitting at the creature. ‘Did you love him, you filthy creature?’

The beast made no response, narrowing its eyes. He laughed.

‘You’re as bad as he was. Disgusting.’ His eyes glittered in the flash of lightning that sparked above them. ‘You’re one too, aren’t you? A fucking pervert.’ He bared his teeth again. ‘I’m glad I killed him.’

The beast roared, lumbering forwards, and caught him by the throat. Its paw crushed his windpipe, claws digging into the fragile skin of his neck, its eyes burning blue and furious on his as it drew him close and snarled, ‘He was ten times the man you are,’ before flinging him off the roof. Joffrey’s arms windmilled as he reached for something – anything – to catch himself on, his scream echoing until it was abruptly cut off as the ground rushed up to meet him.

* * *

Loras was floating in and out of consciousness as Renly made his way back to them. Garlan tried to force him away, anger boiling under his skin, but Loras flopped a defensive arm out at his brother and demanded, in a weak voice, that Renly be allowed to come closer. His brother stepped aside unwillingly, Margaery taking his hand, as Renly sank to his knees beside Loras, tears in his eyes.

‘Loras, I–’ He stopped. What could he possibly say to make the situation better? The boy was dying, and his brother was right – it was all Renly’s fault.

Loras pushed a hand against Renly’s mouth, shaking his head. _Be quiet_. ‘I – love – you,’ he forced out, before his features slackened and Renly’s heart shattered into a thousand pieces as the light went out of Loras’ beautiful brown eyes and his sister started to sob into Garlan’s shoulder.

Inside the castle, the rose’s last petal began to fall before it froze, suspended in time.

A woman all in red stood before it, her hand extended, and smiled. The golden light emanating from the rose started to spread, tendrils reaching through the castle to touch the enchanted furniture and wreath them in light, so bright it was blinding. On the folly, Loras’ body was slowly wrapped in thread after thread of this golden glow, rising slowly off the floor as it did its work. Beside him, Renly collapsed as the light touched him and began to do the same, winding around the both of them and tying them together in shining ropes, brighter and brighter until Garlan and Margaery had to shield their eyes.

The fur fell away from Renly’s body, leaving fine skin like porcelain behind, the antlers receding to leave his brow smooth and clear, paws elongating and slimming to leave behind distinctly human hands and feet. After a few seconds, a human man – eighteen at the most – was lowered slowly to the ground, light dissipating from around him as the sky above them cleared and the castle was restored to its former glory in a spray of sparks. Pitted grey stone became gleaming white marble; gargoyles transformed back to shining golden statues of saints and angels, gardens bursting into full bloom until the perfume of a thousand flowers filled the air.

The servants were likewise transformed, Penrose becoming a stout, balding man and Bryte a tall, golden-haired Lysene; the wardrobe became Renly’s garrulous manservant, the kettle a portly cook with a kindly face and a warm voice as she cried out to her son the teacup. The whole castle burst with life once again.

Renly looked to Loras, lying on the floor as if in a peaceful sleep. His eyes were closed, his hair a tumble of brown curls, slim and beautiful and still as death. He knelt down beside the boy and rested his forehead against Loras’, his thumb rough against the smooth underside of the boy’s chin, and brushed the lightest of kisses across his mouth.

Loras’ lips parted with a gasp and he opened his eyes. The boy hovering over him was at once both a stranger and strangely familiar; a tangle of long black hair hung to his shoulders, which were broad and clad in a loose white shirt. His sharp jaw was stubbled blue-black, his strong nose nevertheless sweetly freckled as though he’d spent a long time in summer sun, and his eyes – his eyes were the bluest Loras had ever seen, tender and cautious where they met his own.

He reached up with one hand, smoothing his thumb wonderingly over the boy’s cheekbone, and smiled. Of course he knew him. He’d know him anywhere.

‘You never told me your name,’ he murmured, and the boy smiled.

‘Renly.’

‘Renly,’ Loras breathed, and flung his arms around Renly’s neck to kiss him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly finished! Only the epilogue (reunions and such!) to go!


	11. Tale As Old As Time II (Epilogue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What does every fairytale au need? A wedding!

The castle was as transformed as its inhabitants. The whole town had turned out in their very best finery for a wedding promising to be the event of the century, and from the extravagance of the setting it would no doubt live up to expectation. The castle’s grounds were as green and lush as they had been withered and frostbitten, every bough dripping with blossoms and strung at regular intervals with lanterns to light the ceremony. Sashes of white silk were draped over the friezes and hanging from the ceilings in the ballroom where the reception was to be held; crystal goblets and gold plate brought out for even the commonest of the guests; and all the food cooked in the castle kitchen by the best cooks in the land. The groom was dressed like a king, in a green velvet doublet that brought out the colour of his eyes, a full cloak bearing the golden rose sigil of his ancestral house, and high black boots as he waited, eyes closed, underneath the rose bower that had grown the rose that broke the castle free.

Loras stood at his side, in matching green, a half-cape of yellow silk over one shoulder, a golden rose pinned to the front of his doublet, and beamed for the collective guests, clustered all around, to see.

The bride approached in silk and white brocade, her hair held back by a circlet of silver inlaid with pearl – a bridegift from the prince, which had previously been part of his mother’s wedding trousseau. The dress, likewise, was provided from his mother’s wardrobe, since she and the bride were of like size. Her face was radiant as she approached, white and gold roses collected in a bouquet in her hand as her father, openly weeping, brought her to the side of her groom and placed her hand in his. At the touch of her hand against his palm, Garlan Tyrell opened his eyes, and was struck dumb.

‘A first,’ Loras whispered to Renly, who as liege lord was presiding over the wedding, and the prince gave a very undignified snort of laughter. Garlan’s eyes were wet with tears, Leonette’s bright with fondness and amusement, and she reached out to wipe them away with one thumb.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he choked out, catching her hand in his to press a kiss to her palm, and from the front row, his grandmother rolled her eyes.

‘For goodness’ sake, Garlan, you can cry over the poor girl later. If we don’t get this wedding underway, she’ll see what a terrible sap you are and look elsewhere for a husband.’ The rest of the guests laughed, Leonette shaking her head with a smile, and Mace chided his mother in a hushed, scandalised voice as Garlan visibly tried to reel his emotions in.

Loras reached out to squeeze his brother’s hand in encouragement, smiling softly at him and his wife-to-be, and they nodded at Renly to say that they were ready.

Renly cleared his throat. ‘You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.’

Garlan turned to Leonette and shrugged the heavy gold-and-green cloak from his broad shoulders before draping it carefully around her. He gently pulled her hair from under the weight of the cloth, letting it settle over her shoulders in loose waves, and she smiled as she took his hand in her own. Loras stepped forward to hand Renly a gold silk ribbon, which he carefully entwined around the couple’s joined hands as he said, ‘Let it be known that Garlan Tyrell and Leonette Fossoway are of one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.’ He grinned at them both. ‘I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.’

‘There’s no escape now,’ Loras said in a stage whisper to Leonette, who bowed her head to hide her laughter. Garlan shot his brother a playful glare, too happy to actually object. Renly unravelled the ribbon and allowed them to step away, and Garlan swept his new bride up into his arms and carried her, laughing, through the shower of rose petals thrown by the guests and up the veranda steps into the ballroom, where music was immediately struck up for the dancing to begin.

Their families trailed the pair of them, followed by the rest of the guests; everyone but Renly and Loras, who lingered beneath the bower, out of earshot and away from curious eyes. Renly reached out to take Loras’ hand in his, smoothing his thumb over the boy’s knuckles.

‘You look very handsome,’ he said, a little at loss for anything better to say. It was true, after all. The deep colour of his doublet brought out the flecks of green and hazel in Loras’ eyes, his hair shone where the loose curls were neatly tied – probably by Margaery – at the nape of his neck, and his face was radiant with the brightness of his smile. Renly let his hand go briefly to stroke the petal of the rose brooch at his shoulder.

‘There was a time I hated you,’ he said softly, ‘without ever knowing you. This was the symbol of everything that had hurt me as a child, of all of the hardships and suffering the people in this castle had been through. Your family were cursed to me, by me, for years.’

‘Renly–’

‘How many times had I sworn to myself that should I ever meet a Tyrell, I would tear his head from his shoulders? How many times had I looked out at the sea of gold and green outside the walls of the castle and felt nothing but hatred?’ He looked down at the brooch as his hand tightened around the metal bloom, tugging at Loras’ doublet, and Loras shook his head.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Your family caused me the most misery I had ever felt. And yet… they have also caused me to feel the most joy.’ Renly’s eyes raised to meet Loras’, and he smiled. He reached up to unclip the stag’s head holding his own cloth-of-gold cape at his shoulder, letting the weighty fabric fall and catching it over the crook of his elbow. He then unfastened Loras’ own brooch, taking the cape from his shoulders.

‘What are you doing?’ Loras asked, reaching out for it. Renly didn’t say a word, simply threw his cape around Loras’ shoulders and pinned it there, stag’s head at Loras’ throat as he folded the boy’s half-cape over his arm and tucked an errant curl behind Loras’ ear with his other hand. The boy stared up at him with wide eyes rapidly filling with tears, lip beginning to tremble, and Renly knew he understood the implication.

‘Would that I could do this properly,’ Renly murmured, hanging Loras’ discarded cape over a bough and taking the boy’s chin in one hand, their lips close enough to brush together with every word. ‘Would that I could marry you, Loras. The best I am allowed is to give you my cloak. My heart, you have already.’

Loras leaned in forcefully, his hands coming up to grasp fistfuls of Renly’s dark hair and kiss him fiercely, tears on his cheeks as Renly wrapped his arms around his waist and revolved them slowly beneath the rose bower.

_THE END_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is finally finished, and I have had the best time writing it. Enormous thanks to everyone on my GoT Discord server who encouraged, enabled and ultimately made this possible; special mentions to those of you who put up with my incessant grumbling about having no idea where to take the story next at regular intervals.


End file.
